Cutting company waste: A heroic tale of poop

She was in the bathroom for way too long, and we all knew it. When the door finally opened, the woman immediately exited the building. Straight out the door. Didn’t dare look any of us in the eye.

This is never good.

Nobody was in the restaurant anymore except for us three workers. One of them went in to clean the bathroom, because it’s 4:00 p.m. and I guess that’s what you do. She came out after about five seconds, yelling something with indignant disgust. Apparently the woman had left us… a present!

I FUCKING knew it.

I went in to look, because why not. I still cringe a little thinking about it as I write this, a decade later. Huge, huge, HUGE dump in the toilet. Easily the biggest I’ve ever seen, ever ever ever. It was disgusting, and it smelled like witchcraft, but that wasn’t even the prime issue. The toilet wouldn’t flush. This shit was now a permanent fixture of the Wahpeton Taco Johns.

Something had to be done, and soon. The bathrooms have to be cleaned, there’s other work to do, and a customer is eventually going to need this toilet. There is only one of each gender. None of the others wanted to even think about it long enough to formulate a plan, let alone go near it.

A home-schooled, immune-deficient eight-year-old child has more constitution than I do for these things, but my unfortunate condition of being born with a penis sometimes requires me to step up and take charge of a situation. And people say chivalry is dead.

Let me introduce myself: My name is Adam, and I suppose I have what you might refer to as “a weak stomach. I could never watch the surgery scenes in Nip/Tuck, and would have skipped them entirely if they didn’t always play such great music. I’ve had so many blood draws and plasma donations that I can feel internally when the needle is too far in my arm, even just off by a tiny bit… but I can NEVER watch, ever, under any circumstances. I have passed out at the sight of my own blood before. It was barely more than a papercut. The mere thought of maggots or lampreys makes my skin crawl for an hour. I’m so terrified of mold that I cannot even look at a picture of it without screaming — a fact that some friends, and my mother, delightfully take advantage of by occasionally posting random pictures on my Facebook. Thanks, mom.

But there’s something about being in a situation with a bunch of terrified women that awakens some primal-or-perhaps-primordial heroism inside of me. I’m terrified of spiders, but when it’s my girlfriend that gets scared by one, the “bravery” section of my brain takes the “fear” section into an unofficial jail cell in the back of my head and holds it there indefinitely without a lawyer. Some ancient caveman warrior instinct in me awakens, and I go out to slay the beast threatening the tribe.

So I tried the obvious stuff first. Flushed the toilet a few times, but it wouldn’t budge. Of course. There wasn’t even that much toilet paper in the bowl; the log itself was just so long and huge that it wouldn’t flush down. At least half of the log was out of the water. It was that gigantic; the length of about half of my arm. It was pale brown, smooth, and had the consistency of thick peanut butter. It looked like something that science accidentally created in an evil laboratory, gone madly out of control with evil research grants. Evil.

So I tried a plunger, even though it makes the plunger get all gross, and I HATE that. Cleaning a plunger is always awkward and equally as disgusting as whatever you were using it for.

It didn’t help, and because of the way this demonic abomination was settled in with the toilet paper, I couldn’t even use the plunger to move it or really do anything at all that would bring me closer to anything resembling victory.

Nothing was working.

There was only one plan of attack left in my arsenal.

I had never done it or thought of it before, so it puzzles me as to why or how I thought of doing this.

I washed my hands thoroughly, and went back into the kitchen. I grabbed four latex gloves, a plastic knife, a plastic fork, a large garbage bag, and industrial grade cleaner with either ammonia, bleach, or formaldehyde in it.

I gloved up — two on each hand — and went back in. I sprayed the cleaner all over the toilet, so much so that all I smelled was my nostrils burning up and my olfactory senses blissfully committing suicide. If this piece of shit was going to kill me, I might as well get high from making the entire room a sterile environment.

I took the plastic fork, and I stabbed it.

I took the plastic knife, and I began to cut the poop. I cut a log of shit from an actual human butthole like a fucking Christmas sausage.

I cut it into several smaller pieces, and then over a series of a few flushes, managed to start getting the water to go down and gurgle. Several minutes of this, which, when you’re physically interacting with gigantic poops, feels like an eternity. Probably for my own psychiatric protection, I did not have a single thought about what I was doing at the time. My mind was perfectly blank. I was a surgeon. Scalpel.

With the help of the earlier-friended-yet-grossed-up plunger, I eventually got the shitsubmarine to begin the journey to its rightful home on the far seas.

Threw the knife, fork, and both gloves in the garbage bag, and immediately went outside to throw the whole thing in the dumpster, being sure not to touch anything with my hands before I was able to scrub them as if I had just… well actually I HAD just cut a piece of human poop in half.

Immediately after the crisis was over, reality set in. I realized what had just happened, and what I had done. With my own two hands. I cannot live with this memory. I ran outside around to the back of the building and threw up. Kind of a lot. I wasn’t sure I was ever going to be able to maintain an erection ever again. I thought my very soul might have pinkeye. Yea, I say unto thee, it was so gross.